Islam in the City - Reflections Edition

Reflections

Reflections

Foreword

The tumultuous year of 2020 has finally passed, yet many of the challenges it produced – or at the very least, heightened – have predictably carried over into the new year. Fall has turned quietly to winter and, though we return to school, we remain at home. The state of unrest and unease that has wracked the world this last year is ongoing, with the COVID-19 pandemic spiralling towards ever graver milestones. This, in addition to the perilous political tension in the United States, and the unrelenting systemic and interpersonal violence being done to BIPOC individuals and communities, both at home and abroad. Stuck at home, we are all facing continuous discomfort and anxiety.

This being said, one of the few benefits of a life seemingly on pause is the heightened opportunity for growth and change – for reflection.

That is what guides this edition of Islam in the City – reflection. On how things have changed, been lost, mutated, and how we as students, and as Muslims, navigate this constantly shifting terrain to find – and to create – meaning. The various ongoing crises we face daily – whether they be related to health, race, class, gender and sexuality, religion, or the environment – demonstrate that the health of the world is declining in more ways than one. But it is our gift, and our responsibility, to shape new beginnings and alternatives both on the individual and societal scales.

For Muslims, the isolation inherent in the COVID-19 pandemic lent events like Ramadan, Hajj, Ashura, Mawlid, and even weekly prayers a wholly unique resonance this last year. Islam is a religion which places a lofty significance on the

community – al-moujtama’. Friday - yawm al-jumma’ – is literally the day of gathering. The community is the heart and soul of all of the events listed above. They are celebrated, commemorated, and mourned, together. This collection of articles from students across the GTA demonstrate a few of the ways in which Muslim students have conceptualized, articulated, and explored their faith in the context of a global health pandemic. They illustrate the vibrancy of Toronto, a city that remains dormant for the time being but is deeply yearned for. Our four contributors navigate their relationships with food, time, family, and - through these different dimensions of life - their faith. They bring to bear a profound sense of longing and loss, but also an appreciation for the resources available to us that help us connect during this time. Space and time are fluid in these pieces: classes and sermons over Zoom, time marked by prayer instead of clockwork, front porches as sites of (distant) congregation, and neighborhood side streets as winding and mobile sites of religious conversation and growth.

2020, with all the myriad challenges it presented, will be remembered as many things – few of which will likely be positive. But the contributors to this edition remind us that it was also a time of immense personal and societal meditation and carried with it opportunities for re-invention and creativity. It is with a tired, but optimistic and encouraged, heart that we invite you to reflect on these stories of Islam in the city, and at home. We hope that you glean whatever lessons you may from their stories, and that you too emerge galvanized and heartened.

– Andrew Mackin, Editor-in-Chief.

January, 2021.

A Tale of Two Cities

by Salwa Iqbal

It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. Actually, it was living two separate lives split by an 8-hour time difference in one city at the height of a global pandemic. A mouthful I know.

As a Muslim student, my life has always to some extent revolved around time. I usually begin my day by calculating where I’m going to be during each prayer and thinking of nearby places that I can pray at – post-COVID, the answer is almost always, at home. Like everyone in the world, my life has changed quite a bit since COVID began. The biggest change for me has been my relationship with time. I’ve come face-to-face with the fact that I’ve taken for granted the complexities that hide behind the numbers and turning hands on our walls. To me, time was both linear and static. It moved in one direction; forwards, never backwards. It was a force that didn’t change for anyone in the world; leaving us at its mercy. It was unstoppable, unchangeable, and impossible to manipulate.

Or so I thought.

When COVID’s second wave started picking up steam I figured it was time to go on a long-overdue trip home. School and work had both been moved online. This seemed like the perfect opportunity to join the millions of students participating in the social experiment that would soon become remote learning. I packed up my apartment, got on a plane, crossed the international dateline, and 22 hours later landed in Doha. Time-wise Doha is 8 hours ahead of Toronto. This means my work and school days usually end around 3 AM, 7 PM Toronto time, something that takes some getting used to. For me right now, time is whatever the opposite of linear is. Although I physically live in Doha, temporally I live in Toronto. My life is split between two cities and their time differences.

“Did I accidentally miss a meeting?”

“Did I miss a class?”

“Let me triple check the time.”

“Am I late?”

All these thoughts run through my head whenever I look at a clock. Instinctually whenever I see the time in Doha, I start counting backwards to what the time would be in Toronto. It makes me wonder, who throughout history once shared my newly found obsession with time? Did the inventors of the sundial, astrolabe, and hourglass have the same struggles as me? Were their lives as dictated minute by minute, hour by hour like our lives are now?

I don’t have an alarm clock in Doha. I wake up around 3 PM, when the mosque calls the Adhan for Asr prayer. I catch lunch, breakfast for me, with my brothers who have just come home from school, our loud and energetic conversations help wake me up faster. I grab a coffee and head upstairs to start zoom university for the next few hours. Pre-COVID it felt like I was held hostage by time. Always carefully checking the time to make sure I could dash to a nearby prayer room in between classes. Now I just get up and pray in my room during class. Time is no longer unbendable for me; it is mine to manipulate. Because Doha is ahead of Toronto, I usually get a few hours extra for assignments (since most assignments are due at midnight, I can work well into the next day). Although school ends at around 3 AM, I spend the rest of the night catching up on work and assignments. Like clockwork, at 4:45 AM the Fajr Adhan plays out loud from the mosque down the street, alerting the whole neighborhood that it’s time to pray.

But it also signals to me that it’s time to get ready for bed.

The call to prayer is one of the few reminders of Islam in the city, since I don’t venture outside my house much these days. But it’s a grounding force that is always there, reminding me of my faith as well as my commitment to school – the ever-delicate balance of being a student of faith. After I’m done praying Fajr, I head downstairs and eat breakfast with my dad who’s now getting ready for work. His day is just beginning, and mine is just ending. We live in the same house, in the same city, but our lives run on different times.

Weekends are also no longer fixed days for me. The weekends in Toronto are Saturday and Sunday, while in Doha they fall on Friday and Saturday. The only weekend day that overlaps, bridging my two lives, is Saturday, so naturally it became the designated family day. On Saturdays I live both temporally and physically in Doha, making an extra effort to connect to the city and people around me. In a COVID world this usually consists of going grocery shopping with my parents. Seeing local foods and grocery labels in a different language usually makes my brain go “Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Toronto anymore.”

Juggling time zones, living from hour to hour, and a newfound obsession with the turning hands on our wrists, is what the new normal looks like for a lot of people. Our life post-COVID is one of oscillation, hinged on time and temporality. Like many others, for now, I live two lives split between time zones. There is the good, and the bad and everything in between. But at the very least I have my parents to sneak me tea and snacks in between endless zoom sessions, a silent “we know this is hard, but we are happy to have you safe and at home.” It really is the best of times, and the worst, all in one.

Hajj at Home by Maeesha Biswas

In March, on Friday the 13th, around Jummah, students and faculty at the University of Toronto learned that all in-person classes and meetings were cancelled effective the following Monday due to the Coronavirus pandemic. I was sitting in the Koffler Student Services centre sipping an iced coffee from the Second Cup nearby when I heard the news. My residence initially allowed those who lived there to stay which, as circumstances worsened globally, gradually turned into a discreet push to move out for those who could. Every night before I slept, like muscle memory, I recited Ayatul Kursi and the same short surahs, asking Allah for mental reprieve.

I haphazardly moved back into my childhood home over a month before the academic session finished. Unbeknownst to me, I was setting out on my own Hajj, seeking revelation in my own understanding of Islam while packing up the home I had made in the last 7 months. Spiritually, Hajj, through its stripping of wealth, pride, and status markers, holds an equal space for Muslims to renew their relationship with Allah and his teachings. My quarantine experience was no different. Without the distractions of downtown Toronto, and campus or social activity, I unconsciously focused on important tenets of my faith - charity, family, and prayer, often to confront fear due to the circumstances I found myself in, along with the rest of the world.

At my home, we have a ceramic of a mosque which my abbu affixed with an adhan clock. Since I never leave my house, I always hear the call to prayer, and never rely on an app. My family and I also pray together and use Asr and Maghrib times to take breaks in our days to spend time with each other. Now that leaving our homes is safer, my abbu and I have started taking walks together in the neighbourhood. We often talk about why Islam is so important to us, and I have started to understand why he has prayed so much that

Photo by Lexi T on Unsplash

he has calluses on his ankles. I understand Islam to offer a series of practices to live one’s life modestly, kindly, and safely – something I only could have strengthened by returning to the place where I first learned how to be a Muslim with my first teachers.

This quarantine has isolated me from most of my adult life while also returning me to my original place of worship - where Halal foods are plentiful, and Zam Zam water is as ubiquitous as Nestlé Pure Life.

Being with my family has been a time of seeking companionship with myself and my faith now that I’m at least six feet away from everyone else.

Having a lot of extended family in Bangladesh, I often hear about the dire circumstances of entire families being ill in the hospital with COVID-19, especially in the countryside, where the impact of the virus has been greater. I have said Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un so often that I wonder if I will associate this phrase with this period of time in history from now on. On the morning of Eid al-Adha, with the closure of mosques and no in-house guests, we welcomed family friends (in masks of course) to our porches who brought generous shares of meat for the occasion. It’s not the same as any other Eid, but it has allowed us to focus on our blessings this year (Al-hamdu lillahil-ladhi bi ni’matihi tatimmus-salihat). This may seem impossible or strange in the current climate but, perhaps because of it, is more important now than ever.

I think this global health crisis is an invisible battle fought six feet apart, and with hand sanitizers and masks. But also, I think my resolve of faith in Islam has helped me protect my mental wellbeing against the sinister effects of hopelessness and fear from COVID-19. When I have had nothing else to do to stop a force as visually or temporally undetectable as a virus, I have prayed or listened to something related to spirituality. It has given me a sense of tranquility to know that I have fulfilled my role in affecting future events and leave them to take their course.

This ongoing experience of self-isolation during COVID-19 has been, in a word, heartbreaking. I have seen my friends lose their livelihoods, teenagers fight for their lives in the ICU, and tenants resist eviction all across Toronto. As an empath, I hurt and pray for them, helping in ways I can and hoping that their lives become easier.

While on campus in the past, I didn’t particularly attend Muslim Student Association events, or seek out the prayer spaces at Bahen Centre.

Maybe this was because Islam felt more like a part of my heritage and routine. Strangely, the isolation has made Islam more innate – a way in which I do things. With all the positives and negatives, quarantine has been a transformative experience, changing my understanding of this nuanced religion.

At the end of pilgrimage, as Muslims leave the seemingly alternate universe of Hajj, I’ve read that they experience a high which lingers in everyday life. As I pack to re-enter the world from the cocoon of my childhood home, among the fairy lights and photographs, I also bring an ornament with part of the Shahada carved into it. And so, I return to my old life with the first pillar tucked in my room and faith in my heart, with newfound eagerness to connect with my brothers and sisters over something that bonds us beyond this world.

Mourning in the Time of COVID-19

by Sadia Uddin

in harmony with the imam delivering the sermon.

On Ashura, however, the setting changes from the Imambargah to the streets of Toronto where a juloos procession follows a specified route around the GTA while mourners carry tall gold-trimmed banners and other symbolic representations of the Ahlulbayt and particularly Imam Hussain to mark their veneration.

In addition to partaking in this tradition, I had also grown accustomed to seeing Muharram being commemorated around me at York Univer-

Photo by Aishah Rahman on Unsplash

It was August 2020 and we were five months into the COVID-19 global pandemic.

Back in March, not many of us would have imagined that life as we know it could change so drastically that we would have to alter pretty much every aspect of our routine and ways of being. I know that I certainly did not imagine this. As the Islamic month of Muharram commenced, I could not help but think back to the fervor with which this holy month has previously been observed. At the same time, I knew that I must begin to prepare myself to adapt to the changing circumstances and commemorate Ashura, or the tenth day, in a different way.

Usually when the month of Muharram begins, the mourners of Hussain ibn e Ali (626-680 AD) attend daily congregational majlis sermons at the Imambargah where narratives of the famed Battle of Karbala (680 AD) are retold and shared with attendees. The experience has historically been very interactive as mourners come together to collectively recite salutations upon Islam’s holy Prophet Muhammad and the Ahlulbayt (members of the Prophet’s household)

sity’s Keele campus. Over the past few years, while walking through the Vari Hall, I always anticipated coming across elaborate stalls set up by student-led organizations to draw attention to Ashura.

Immediately upon entering the building, I would see large banners and posters inviting the passersby to learn more about the significance of the Battle of Karbala. Each year, the organizers and volunteers would find creative new ways to represent Hussain ibn e Ali and share his message with those unfamiliar with him. A closer look around the area revealed the warm and friendly faces of student volunteers spreading Hussain’s message of peace and compassion through beautiful gestures like handing out flowers, water bottles or cups of hot chocolate to those walking by. Hussain represented selflessness and mercy and so, each of these

gestures was accompanied by a small leaflet or a card sharing his message to humanity. I would notice on-lookers showing interest in learning further and many would even stop to engage with the volunteers and to ask questions. This always made me immensely happy and it always warmed my heart to see others acting out of their love for Hussain and the Ahlulbayt.

This year and for the foreseeable future, however, I did not expect Muharram to entirely be the same. In 2020, mourners of Hussain and the martyrs of Karbala had to improvise when

Photo by Lexi T on Unsplash

Photo by Aishah Rahman on Unsplash

inviting Muharram into their homes and their hearts. With most Imambargahs and university campuses opting to remain closed during the ongoing pandemic, Muharram had to be spent in isolation. While the sense of collective mourning has been deeply impacted by the pandemic, it did not deter the commemoration of Ashura. I observed Muharram in a different light. Since I could not physically attend majalis in the days leading up to Ashura, I reflected on the tragedy of Karbala through majalis that was now live streamed on a daily basis, and I was able to participate from my own home. Although mourners, including myself, were physically separated, we still had the opportunity to virtually attend majlis each day and join our community members in commemorating Muharram together. We were able

to follow the imam reciting sermons detailing the sacrifices Hussain and his companions made for humanity. It was comforting to know that despite the circumstances, we could all simultaneously find connectivity and unity in our faith through various digital platforms. Each live streamed majlis was made available to hundreds of thousands of mourners across the globe in different time zones and this fostered and further strengthened the community of mourners.

At this time, as we observed Muharram under these circumstances, we had the chance to begin to pay special attention to the plight of those members of Hussain’s family who were unable to accompany him to Karbala due to illness and had to stay on in Medina. This Muharram, I was particularly reminded of the isolation of Hussain’s young daughter Fatima as-Sughra. Lady Fatima as-Sughra was one of Hussain’s family members who was unable to accompany Hussain and the Ahlulbayt to Karbala. She was too ill to travel and was advised by her father to contain her emotions and bid farewell to her family as they set out on their journey towards Karbala. While the rest of her family members faced calamity and were massacred in Karbala, she was held back and had to look on from home. Yet she too did not cease to mourn the loss of Hussain and the Ahlulbayt.

Lady Fatima as-Sughra is equally a reminder of sacrifice as she honoured her father’s advice to stay home in Medina and instead, prayed for the safety of her family throughout their journey and also experienced their eventual loss.

During the pandemic as we similarly continued taking precautions for our own personal safety and the safety of our loved ones and those around us, I know that this Muharram like all others was also a month of introspection. We could all learn from Lady Fatima as-Sughra and by keeping her exemplary actions in mind, I was especially grateful for having the privilege of being able to observe Muharram from within the safety and comfort of my own home. Albeit virtually, I was still able to attend daily majlis and have the benefit of learning from the important sermons on the sacrifices of Hussain ibn e Ali, his companions and members of the Ahlulbayt during the Battle of Karbala.

Muharram in 2020 may be have been spent in isolation but it was commemorated, nonetheless.

by Osama Omar

As an avid foodie, my connection with food is profound. Those who know me might even say that that is an understatement.

Whether I’m exploring a unique topping on my pizza, or discovering a new café tucked away in some corner of Toronto, simply put – my zestful relationship with food runs deep. It has also evolved as a direct extension of my identity as a Muslim.

Growing up as a child of diaspora, food has always served as the common denominator; just as bread functions as a vessel for other accompaniments, my engagement with food was central to how I managed to navigate, foster, and grow meaningful friendships.

My family travelled a lot growing up, primarily because of my parent’s professional and education commitments in Japan. So, we were always meeting lots of new people. Reflecting back on my fair share of sushi and sashimi, I realized that common ground is not so difficult to find when you share a meal with another person. There is more than meets the eye when you sit at a table to eat with someone else – the passionate conversations, the lively laughter, and the priceless memories you create as a result of extending an invite to someone for a bite of shawarma.

But even in my quest for the perfect burger, or the crispiest fried chicken, in town, I had my own share of struggles when it came to finding Halal-sourced meat at restaurants. Halal essentially refers to dietary observations for Muslims; a dictate analogous to what Kosher means for the Jewish faith. For many Muslims like myself, Halal is synonymous with dietary restrictions and principles that are quite diverse in our religious understandings, focused primarily on the humane slaughter and ethical treatment of animals. For most Muslims like myself, our go-to order at restaurants growing up was often fish (which is Halal by default) or vegetarian/vegan options. It would come as a surprise to no one that whenever Halal options were available, it was a moment to cherish.

The compromises I made in my various searches were redeemed when I found worthy items on a menu to not only justify my soul’s desires, but also satisfy my cravings for great food. If I do make an unfiltered confession, exploring unusual flavors and experimenting with new food combinations is one of my guilty pleasures – something I have been able to pursue unrestricted, thanks to the dynamic and spirited food culture in Canada.

With the growing influx of immigrants settling in Toronto, coupled by the increasing population of Muslims residing in the GTA, the variety of food offerings and the demand for Halal options have grown exponentially over the past decade. Owing to the city’s diverse and vibrant social fabric, I have experienced first-hand how multiculturalism has contributed to the food scene.

Toronto is a slice of heaven for a foodie looking for plenty of new experiences and flavorful variety to appease the palate – with plenty of Halal options.

New restaurants and food offerings continue to expand the possibilities for the Muslim community in the GTA. To seek a prime example of this, we need not look further than the southward neighborhood starting from Kensington Market which boasts a variety of eateries – whether you’re in the mood for fried chicken and waffles at Dirty Bird, a luxurious burger from Ozzy’s, or some Philly-Cheese Steak takeaway prepared by Top Gun. Whether it is accessibility to Halal options at the local grocery store, a new appeal and culture for niche cuisines and culinary trends in the Halal food scene, or the proliferous emergence of Halal food trucks popping up cross Toronto’s streets, the lasting imprint of Halal food’s influence in Toronto’s evolving landscape is undeniable.

I quite often think of the beauty in how cityscapes neatly adopt various cultures and seamlessly weave them into the very social fabric of its way of life. Just walking down Danforth Avenue, one is met by a multitude of cultures and cuisines - from traditional Yemeni Kabsa and Mandi, to ASAP City’s flavorful sandwiches informed by western influences – there is no shortage of mouth-watering options when Toronto has tastes from all corners of the globe to exhibit its multicultural diversity and pluralism. These changes inspired, and met climactically in, the Halal Food Festival, organized annually at the International Centre near Toronto Pearson Airport. Vendors, Muslim celebrities, and Halal food brands from all across North America converge at this vibrant celebration of food and culture. With live cooking

demonstrations, dessert decoration bake-off’s, BBQ grilling competitions, fitness talks on food and nutrition – alongside the opportunity to sample countless selections of Halal food – this event has created quite the spark for change. There are also panel discussions that engage with the ethics of the culinary world, talks about different modes of our spiritual expression for social responsibilities and how modernity brings new challenges that must be addresses in a more conscious manner. To this day, new restaurants continue to sprout up across the city and attracts Muslims of all ages; there are enough options now to appease everyone’s cravings and preferences.

These days, things are quite different.

With the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic, while the demand remains unwavering, the situation does not allow for dine-in experiences with family or casual spontaneous lunch plans with friends. Although most halal food businesses continue to operate with take-away arrangements, a great number of eateries have also struggled to sustain themselves with the decline in customer influx. It is only now – like many other trivial things in life I previously took for granted – that I clearly recognize how precious it was to be able to share food with loved ones when eating out. Although the Halal Food Festival did not take place this year, I do find comfort in knowing that it will be even more vibrant and meaningful for the Muslim community when it hopefully makes a comeback in the very near future.

Like changing seasonal menus, I believe our collective predicament will be resolved as the world hopefully returns to its ways. This too shall pass, and when it does, I cannot wait to indulge in the delicacies of life in the company of family and friends. At the end of the day, the sense of community that each of us find at the dinner table when food is served transcends beyond what we may think of as a simple gathering. It is an expression of love, commitment, and family. Food is powerful not only because it nourishes our body; it nourishes our soul when we connect over it – Halal or otherwise.

So every time I am in the city for lunch – whether I’m looking to grab some brisket at Meat & Pie CO., or some Shawarma wraps and platters from Paramount Fine Foods – I try my best to share it with someone. After all, stories, experiences, and food, are all better when shared with others.

Reflections

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